


executioner.

by pervert



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Priest McCree, Religious Content, Religious Guilt, Tentacles, demon reaper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 03:04:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11546169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pervert/pseuds/pervert
Summary: mccree is haunted by a demonic entity. their confrontation is anything but ordinary.





	executioner.

**Author's Note:**

> shout out to @mattcree on twitter for giving me permission to use its idea for this fic.  
> it was interesting to write, i hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> title inspired by executioner - nicole dollanganger

_ do not participate _

_ in the unfruitful deeds of darkness, _

_ but instead even expose them;  _

_ ( ephesians 5:11 ) _

 

* * *

 

     The church was quiet at this hour, the layers of dust on the floor lay still, and the only lights were that of the candles lit by the altar and the moonlight that formed vibrant halos of glass around the crown of religious beings in the windows. McCree had yet to leave the church, not after what he had felt; what he had seen. His dreams had been tainted with images of ghoulish features and bloodied claws, ones that curled around a fleecy neck and left him completely breathless as they pluck away symbolic innocence. 

 

     McCree understood that he was far from being clean, all those crimes he had committed under Deadlock the lord would never forgive. Yet he clung the smallest bit of hope that he could be saved.  He was a beacon of sin, a man of desperation, going from being on his knees for the pleasures of gun wielding crimelords to kneeling at the foot of a cross, begging for some form of forgiveness. As these dreams grew more potent and his nights grew more long and fearsome, he began to ask himself if he would ever be forgiven. It seemed devoting himself to religion wasn’t enough to stave off demons.

 

     “ _. . .bowing in my heart, _ ” McCree faintly prayed, eyes closed and breathing slow, “ _ asking for protection from the evil one _ —”

 

     “Evil?” there came guttural rasp, one that spoke of years of unrest and painful exhaustion that settled so neatly on vocal chords, “is that what they’re calling me now?” 

 

     From behind shut eyes, McCree could see the light cut, as if a cruel wind had blown through the emaciated infrastructure of this religious hold. Warmth had been drained from the air, leaving his skin freckled with gooseflesh and the sudden heaviness that surrounded him left him with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was here, the one that plagued his dreams had finally arrived. That  _ demon _ .

 

     A shaky breath escaped the priest as he opened his eyes to lukewarm darkness, he was still perched aptly at the stairs of the altar. The sorrowful eyes of Jesus bound to a sigil of faith met McCree’s as a tendril of ashen smoke wound itself around his thigh, drawing him in, lifting him from the floor as mist built mass. “You knew I was coming for you,” the voice beckoned with a hint of amusement, “I thought you would smart enough to realize that sage and rosary beads could only do so much, but here you are, some brainless fly caught in my web. When will you learn, Jesse?”

 

     A veil of mist fell over his eyes, blinding him for a moment as he was cradled above the wooden floors, violated by ringlets of fumes that slipped beneath the fabric of clergy shirt to grope and caress the soft flesh of his stomach and thighs. As the mist cleared, that mural of Jesus he fell before so frequently had been placed with the figure of something much more. A mass of hooded darkness, full of teary eyes that twitched and rolled, whetted teeth that snarled and snapped, and the outline of an owl bone face. He bled sin, but as one of those tendrils so skilfully stripped him of clothing McCree couldn’t stifle his gasps. 

 

     The demon chuckled, tilting his head he seemed ever so content with the situation. “What was that you were spewing before? Psalm 5:11-12?” effortlessly, the demon strode towards McCree, his figure distorting and blinking with his every movement, “allow me to carry out the prayer, father.” 

 

     “For it is you,” he began as a hand of talons reached forth to cup McCree’s cock through the fabric of filthy underwear, “who blesses the  _ righteous man _ .” Fingertips pulled away the loose fabric, exposing McCree’s most sacred parts to this unholy creature. Nothing could quite stop the immoral blood flow to his member as the demon curled his inhuman fingers around the base of it, touching him with a sort of sultry sweetness, one that left the priest dizzy.

 

     McCree tilted his head backwards and squeezed his eyes closed, hips shifted and lips fell ajar as he gave into the pleasure. There was nothing he could do caught up in the spidering fog of the demon, he couldn’t move a muscle, but when he felt the tip of that fine claw ghost over the slit of his leaking head, he knew there would be no return. No forgiveness. Nothing. For the eyes of god were watching from the stained glass windows to his son, the witness, painted on the walls and the angels of the plaster. All eyes fell upon the shameful display of a man devoted with his legs fallen open for some hellish being with his hand working McCree into a panting and quivering mess upon this throne of mist. 

 

     “O Lord,” the creature sighed as he brushed away the pre that dribbled down the underside of McCree’s tool, “you surround him. . .”

 

     Teary eyes that were rolled heavenward flicked open to stare upon the beast of Satan in front of him. Here he could watch as those broad shoulders shifted and that eerie gaze settled over his own, here he could see every fantasy that left him sweating and bucking into his hand in the middle of the night, cursing and shying away from the cross above his bed. Here he could see the inevitable fact of his tragic life; hell. 

 

     With one final tug of his weeping cock, McCree swore hell was godly compared to heaven. When white consumed his vision, as he spilled into the demons palm, and he knew he would just be another milk carton angel when this reaper had his way with him, he could only feel  _ bliss _ .

 

     “. . .favor as with a shield.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> bad fic, bad time.


End file.
